


Once Divided, Twice Whole

by littledust



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-25
Updated: 2006-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:51:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Padma never expects to fall in love on a cold night in early March, with snowflakes petering out of the clouds like the last sullen grains of salt from a shaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Divided, Twice Whole

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/witchwinter/profile)[**witchwinter**](http://community.livejournal.com/witchwinter/)! My sincerest apologies for the utter lateness, [](http://chasingtides.livejournal.com/profile)[**chasingtides**](http://chasingtides.livejournal.com/). This has gone through three different versions and I am _finally_ happy. Hope you enjoy!

Padma never expects to fall in love on a cold night in early March, with snowflakes petering out of the clouds like the last sullen grains of salt from a shaker. It happens nevertheless.

She and Parvati (Parvati, who sleeps in another room for the first time) thought of love in terms of summer, rich and humid and blue-skied. Her twin (gone to Gryffindor) loved fairytales and romance novels and spun fabulous descriptions of their future loves, tall and dark-eyed, flying in on magic carpets to whisk them away. Padma felt something a tad off about their rosy futures, but held her tongue. Perhaps that was why she had not made it into Parvati's house--not brave enough, too many thoughts. Three months into the school year and Parvati found a soul sister (talked to her more than her blood sister) and Padma now is left sitting alone by the window in her common room.

Anthony and Terry keep distracting her from her misery, though. They are determined to construct a model of Hogwarts out of wizarding cards, although the cards themselves have other ideas about such indignity. "Hang on, I've got another one of Dumbledore," Anthony keeps saying, "at least _he_ likes the idea..."

And to the left of them, a sixth-year (Prefect, and Padma could never remember her name) approaches one of the study groups, clutching an enormous pile of notes and books. "Hello," she says, pleasantly enough. "I'm doing a project on cross-cultural elements in spells. Do you speak Chinese?"

Cho's mouth tightens for just a moment--just, then she smiles back. "I speak some Cantonese, and I know a few words in Mandarin."

"Oh. Thanks, anyway."

In that instant between the question and the reply, Padma loses her heart, ne'er to be found again, though she wants to go looking where she saw it last (her face), heard it last (the quiet dignity of the response).

Parvati isn't the only one who can find a twin-not-a-twin.

  
* * * * *

  
Padma immerses herself in dragons and dreams and dynasties, speaks of calligraphy in response to Parvati's laughing comments about bookish Ravenclaws. ( _Oh, Padma, of course you'd find another way to love words. But why China?_ ) Why China? How to explain the construction of the airy bridge in her mind, the only path she can find in the twinless corridors of Hogwarts? They are alike in their differences.

Lavender Brown comes to visit over vacation for two weeks, and the next year, and the year after that, and Padma suspects it will be this way forever, their overflow of Gryffindor things (crystal balls and teacups and endless clothes) edging into her space, the room she once shared with Parvati but now occupies like an afterthought, like the ghost of a mirror images. She unrolls a scroll of spells and tries to mouth the liquid syllables, not daring to speak them aloud--results could be disastrous. It helps that they write in Cantonese, an amalgram of traditional characters and new ones, clues and puzzle pieces to guess at the pronunciation.

The magic of mainland China is largely locked away, but Hong Kong glows on the insides of Padma's eyelids.

At Hogwarts, Ravenclaws learn love of learning. A paradox, an impossibility, more teasing than a virgin whore. No one has ever put their arms around learning, felt its lips on a fevered forehead.

Loving someone without contact or hope or conversation is easy, all things considered.

  
* * * * *

  
Cedric is very handsome.

Padma hates him.

Not after he's dead, of course.

  
* * * * *

  
The snow is falling again, gentler because winter has not yet worn thin and cruel, and Padma wraps her cloak around Cho's shoulders, because she is crying and hiccupping and looking altogether unbeautiful, never an _exotic beauty_ , as if loveliness were foreign to girls like them, the pair of them, the pair. Cho blows her nose obediently on the handkerchief held out for her.

The little card house she has built of facts about China comes tumbling, tumbling down like Anthony and Terry's structures always do (they still make them in the common room even after all these years)--one card floats by her mental point of view and reads thus: **_Ci_** is a form of poetry most often expressing feelings of desire, often in an adopted persona, but the greatest exponents of the form (such as Li Houzhu and Su Shi) used it to address a wide range of topics. Except she is afraid that if she opens her lips a sonnet will spill out because after all her parents were born in Britain.

"I love you," she says, because nothing else sounds right.

Cho finishes wiping her face and tucks the handkerchief inside her own pocket, expression registering no surprise at the confession. "I like people who love me," comes the soft answer to the unspoken question, although Padma's heart cracks at the word _like_. "Please, no promises."

Padma does no such thing, because a kiss is a promise and she kisses her so soft, like the snow but warm like the sun, little sunflakes across her lips--Padma has never kissed anyone before; she went to the Yule Ball last year with Ron because of course he was going to look at Hermione all night long. (He could have been a nicer date, though. Really.)

 _Chinese architecture puts emphasis on the horizontal_.

They make love (for lack of a better term--some Ravenclaw must get to work on that) on Padma's bed, awkward and shy, because Cho really just wants someone to keep her company and Padma knows this, pushes the scrolls about the Ming dynasty aside, and undresses her clumsily anyway. Because Cho is like her, and not like her, and the taste of her skin is like stepping into another country, some unexplored terrain golden and lovely.

"I don't know any Sanskrit," she whispers into the curve of Cho's knee.

"Oh, _there,_ " Cho groans.

Later, Padma watches Cho fall asleep and wishes for a map.

  
* * * * *

  
It is Luna who gives 1) her shoulder a squeeze, and 2) the impression that she would have liked to hug Padma except nobody (even fellow Ravenclaws) likes Loony Loopy Lovegood. Padma does not cry but she has handed back every book and scroll and treatise on China. Madam Pince was sorry and said she would look into getting more books if she was all finished. _That is not it at all,_ she could not bring herself to say, for who knows who will need more books in the future.

Padma is in the common room and she doesn't know what to do. Terry and Anthony's cards are halfway in the shape of Hogwarts, doomed to failure. Cho Chang and Roger Davies are going out now, because Roger can keep Cho company in public as well as private and _they are not the same_ because Padma loves and Cho doesn't. Cho is scared, has been scared even before Cedric died.

"I hear Hawaii is nice at this time of year," Luna says in her vague way, and drifts off to sit by the fire and warm her hands, like Cinderella, whose godmother was an actual historical figure escaped from a lunatic asylum. Very British of her, that girl.

Padma closes her eyes and considers a goddess with hair of lava and a string of islands like pearls on a necklace, lush vegetation spilling over and over. But it is deserted, there is no one there.

No one--but--herself.

What a lost country.

She is not particularly demonstrative, not even when gratitude should demand it, but later that evening Padma nods at Luna over the notes she is making, notes in a diary, notes on the texts in her head, not the words she put in there.

Studying, she is content.


End file.
